


Inside Your Head

by etgoddess



Category: Gossip Girl
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-01-27
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 21:00:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14922743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etgoddess/pseuds/etgoddess
Summary: Numbing the pain for a while will make it worse when you finally feel it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finally moving things over from LJ (yes LJ) and FF.net. Be gentle some of this is a decade old ;p
> 
> Partially inspired by the Eberg song "Inside Your Head", spoiler pics for 3x16, and sleep deprivation.

Her head was throbbing. “Jesus,” Jenny mumbled, forcing her eyes open, “That was quick.”

A brunette leaned over her, filling her view. “Quick? Is that what you’re in this for? Oblivion? Stat?” 

The brunette sauntered away and Jenny sat up gingerly. The white room was unfamiliar. 

“Where’s—“ she began, her voice cracking. She tried to swallow the Sahara in her throat and tried again. “Where’s Damien?” She squinted and attempted to focus on the other woman but the light made her head pound harder. 

The brunette raised an eyebrow and gestured around the room. “Not here.” 

Jenny struggled to her knees, breathing deeply and blinking to clear the black dots in her vision. “He would—“ she closed her eyes to block out the light completely and brought a hand to her face, “He wouldn’t just take off and leave me here.” 

The brunette rolled her eyes at Jenny’s sentiment and a scoff blew past her lips. “Damien? Are we talking about the same noble drug dealer?”

Jenny forced her eyes open, ignoring the young woman’s incredulity. “What happened to my head? And what time is it?” 

She met the brunette’s eyes. “You don’t remember?” the girl prompted skeptically. 

Jenny shifted back to sit on her butt and stretched her legs out in front of her. “Obviously not since I just asked you,” she retorted. 

The brunette rolled her eyes as Jenny shifted uncomfortably, head spinning. Frustrated, the brunette huffed a breath and stomped towards Jenny’s prone form, hiking her dress up with one hand as she went. She dropped down in front of Jenny to balance on the balls of her feet. “You’re unconscious!” the brunette shouted, shaking Jenny by the shoulders. 

Jenny grabbed the brunette’s arms in an attempt to steady her vision. “What?!” Jenny exclaimed bewildered. “I was unconscious? The last thing I remember is (Damien, the club, and) taking the—“

“—pills?!” the brunette erupted, leaning closer. Jenny’s mouth snapped shut with an audible ‘pop’. The brunette forged on. “And not was unconscious, you are unconscious, Jenny. Look around. Have you ever seen an obscenely bright, white room like this? That’s because we’re in your head.”

The confusion was obvious on Jenny’s face. “What? How do you know my name?” she asked, shifting again against the uncomfortable tingling in her fingers. She flexed her hands trying to dispel the feeling. If only her ears would stop ringing she could make some sense of this whole mess. 

The brunette dropped her eyes to the floor between she and Jenny and took a moment to shift to her knees. When she met Jenny’s gaze again there was a determined fire in her eyes. She leaned in. “You’re in the bathroom Jenny. And you need to get out of here before you feel like complete shit. Don’t go home; your Dad can’t see you like this. Go to Chuck’s. Spend the night. He’ll be pissed but he’ll protect you.” The brunette paused to heave a sigh. She looked downtrodden. “No more, Jenny,” her words hung heavy with implication. “Time to wake up. Wake up, Jenny. Jenny, wake up!”

***

“Jenny! Jenny wake up!” Hazel’s shrill soprano cut deep through the mental fog, jerking Jenny back to consciousness. Her eyelids dragged open slowly. She felt heavy. Everywhere. She struggled to speak but Hazel was already dragging her to her feet with the help of Penelope and Mindy. “What were you doing on the floor?” Hazel queried, disgust coloring her words. “Do you know what you can catch from these floors?”

Mindy chimed in, “She’s totally right J, just last semester Morgan Stanley wound up with the clap.”

Penelope sneered at Mindy’s profile. “That was from her boyfriend because he was sleeping with Harlem whores; not from the floors at Katwalk, Mindy.” They swept Jenny along as they bickered, one arm slung over each shoulder. 

Jenny fought with her tongue for control. “Home.” She slurred. 

Her mumbling raised Mindy’s attention. “What’d you say, J?”

Jenny repeated herself, trying to force her voice louder, stronger, “I need to go home.”

Hazel butted in, indignant, “Home? Already?” 

Penelope glared at Hazel. “She’s clearly fucked up, H.”

Jenny struggled to argue, “ ‘m fine. ‘st don’t feel good.”

Hazel furrowed her brow, skeptical, “Are you sure you’re okay Jenny?”

Penelope stomped forward with Jenny’s left side in tow, “H, let’s just put her in a cab so we can enjoy our night!” she snapped. 

Outside Katwalk, the four girls stood shivering as a dingy, yellow cab pulled to a stop at the curb. 

“Guys,” Mindy protested, “Shouldn’t somebody go with her?” She was met with annoyed stares from her two cohorts. She tried again, “I just mean, if she took something…we shouldn’t send her home alone.”

Penelope leaned in the passenger window and handed the cabbie a $100 bill. “Take her wherever she wants to go. And make sure she gets there.” She stepped back to raise a haughty eyebrow at Mindy. “Do you want to go with her? Cut your night short?”

Mindy looked guiltily at her Manolo Blahnik shoes and stepped away from the cab. She called out to Jenny, “Call me when you get home!” before Hazel slammed the cab door and Penelope waved the cabbie away with a flick of her wrist. 

***

Jenny startled at the sound of the door slamming. 

“Miss?” the driver repeated again, “Where to, Miss?” The older man looked at her expectantly. 

“455 Madison Avenue,” she replied, over-enunciating each syllable. With a nod and a raise of his eyebrows, the driver merged into street traffic and Jenny slumped against the door, resting her head against the frigid window to help her stay lucid. Her eyes closed.


	2. Chapter 2

She woke to the driver rattling the barricade that divided the car.  She jerked upright at the sound of his voice.  “Miss.  455 Madison Avenue, the Palace,” he dictated in broken English, pointing out the window. 

 

Jenny nodded clumsily and shuffled outside.  Closing the cab door threw off her precarious balance and she stumbled back a few steps under the elaborate Palace awning.  The doorman skillfully ignored her altered state and graciously held the door for her, welcoming, “Good evening, Ms. Humphrey.”

 

Jenny tried to reply but the bright lights of the entrance seared fresh pain through her temples and she slumped forward, ducking her head and moving to the lobby elevators as quickly and cleanly as she could.  In the dim glow of the trolley, her eyes cleared and she pushed the button for Chuck’s penthouse suite.  Her head rested against the cool marble of the elevator car and the feeling was like salve to a burn.  Her breathing calmed, the fog shrouding her mind lifted for a brief moment—and the car came to a halt, the telltale ‘bing’ of the bell sounding. 

 

Prepared for the worst possible reception to her visit, she tried to pull herself together but the pharmaceuticals coursing through her system fought back.  She stepped out as the doors opened, rounded the corner slurring terribly but soldering on, calling, “Chuck!” as forcefully as she could muster—and registering, in the recesses of her drug-addled mind, how specifically unpleasant an ending to her misguided evening an encounter with a teddy-wearing Blair might be. 

 

“Chuck!” she rasped a fourth time, her voice sounding more like sandpaper with each successive try.  “Chuck!” she called, clumsily pulling her beret from her head and slowly, sloppily shrugging her shoulders until her jacket relented and met the hardwood with a ‘swoosh’.  “Where are you?” she added, her voice breaking despondently as she rounded the apartment and reached the kitchen. 

 

The yelling made her head pound and now her vision swam.  She brought a hand to her face as if that would stop the world spinning.  She leaned back and the cool marble countertops of the kitchen island caught her.  Her whole body felt like it was on fire.  _Why was it so hot in this apartment_?  She swallowed hard against the permeating nausea. 

 

“Chuck!” she called out.  Jenny opened her eyes again with the hope that she could conjure him through sheer willpower.  A tall, brunette boy stood in front of her in only a well-worn pair of blue plaid pajama bottoms, bare-chested and bare-footed.  He almost wasn’t holding a tall glass as he made eye-contact with the lanky, distressed, blonde standing in the kitchen of his best friend’s apartment at 12:30 a.m.  His heart almost didn’t ricochet into his throat, effectively cutting off his air supply and reducing him to a mute statue. 

 

 ***

 

He stared—shock staining his features—and he just stared.  His mind should have been racing—compiling cutting questions and vicious retorts to finding _her_ in the kitchen; her with her blonde hair and long legs that shook and buckled now as she stood.  His heart should have been colder, harder than the marble she leaned on.  He wanted to scream.  He wanted to yell and berate and ‘ _what are you doing here_ ’ and ‘ _what did you do to yourself’_ and ‘ _I won’t save you anymore’_ and finally, when he forgot to forget to remember to forget, ‘ _what did you do to me_ ’ because, let’s be real—Jennifer Humphrey had always had Nathaniel Archibald, inside out, upside down, out of place.  He wanted to square his shoulders and lie until they both believed.  _‘Go home Jenny.  There’s nothing here for you anymore.’_   He wanted to grit his teeth until his jaw ached and his neck protested and then keep gritting them until his eyes believed and his vision ran clear and his heart stopped leaching poison to his veins that made his chest constrict and the pain pull him under where it was numb, utter nothingness.  He needed to cut her like she cut him.  And then everything stopped.  For one terrifying moment, Nathaniel Archibald ceased to breathe.  Jenny’s eyes rolled in her head and she gripped tighter to the countertop.  The **_NateandJenny_** piece of Nate clawed its way from his stomach to his throat, screaming and cursing for him to ‘ _get to her’_!  But he pressed his arms tighter to his sides and set his jaw against any traitorous words that might escape.  

 

 ***

  

Jenny saw stars but did not fall.  She stubbornly gasped for breath and wished, for only the second time in her life, that it was _anyone_ else standing in front of her.  She decided she would gladly watch Blair do the jitterbug in a teddy if it just meant she could close her eyes and let the dark have her.  But there were no fairy godmothers to grant her wish, and it _was_ Nate in front of her and, high as a kite or not, Jenny would _never_ seek solace from him again.  He was staring at her intently now.  More judging was more than she could take.  He seemed to struggle for words but Jenny’s patience with the spectrum of “Natefusion” had long since worn thin.  She could see the tension in his jaw line, could practically hear his teeth grinding. 

 

Jenny dug her nails into her palms, using the pain to ground her.  “Where is Chuck?” she forced out, proud when her voice barely wavered.

 

“With Blair.” Nate replied tightly.  Still, he stared daggers at her.  Analyzing.  Evaluating her every move. 

 

Jenny bit back a whimper.  _Of course_ Chuck was out.  It was Saturday night on the Upper East Side.  “I just, I didn’t know you’d be here.” She told him, as if that explained her current state.  She pushed off the counter and stumbled forward in the direction of Chuck’s room. 

 

Nate’s voice rang out behind her, “What are you doing here?”

 

Jenny’s face twisted into a bitter smirk, but she didn’t turn around.  “Rough night, Nathaniel.” she taunted, over enunciating every syllable in his name.  She leaned her head against Chuck’s bedroom door and grasped the cool brass handle in her right hand.  “Go to bed,” she slurred, her control slipping.  She lurched through the doorway and the vanity caught her before she could fall.  There was already a bruise forming where her shin had impacted a brass drawer knob and the gold jewelry digging into her forearms was sure to leave a mark.  Jenny couldn’t care.  The drugs in her system were finally giving way to blissful nothingness.  The rolling nothing overtook the pain in her leg, the pinching under her forearms, the ache in her chest; overtook the mortification that Nate had caught her at her very lowest for the umpteenth time and the worry that he’d call somebody to come take her worthless ass off his hands.  She stumbled again.  The heaviness in her limbs lifted as the nothing continued to creep over her.  She was floating now.  She swung at the bedroom door and it answered her with a satisfying ‘ _slam’_.  Her hand ran along the silk sheets of “ _Charles Bass’”_ bed.  She rubbed them between her fingers.  _Nothing._ She felt _nothing._ And it was utterly fabulous.  Utterly silent.  She pitched forward suddenly and landed in a heap on a comforter that cost more than her Constance tuition.  And then it was utterly dark. 


	3. Chapter 3

Jenny Humphrey was in the kitchen.  Jenny was in _Chuck’s_ kitchen.  _Jenny_ was standing in front of him.  Something chirping in the back of his mind was telling him this should probably be some profound, movie-esque scene where two friends are reunited after a lengthy separation and music crescendos as they finally makeup.  Except Nate still couldn’t seem to do anything but stare.  He ground his teeth together in frustration but coherent speech escaped him.  He was thrilled when she spoke first, until the words that came out of her mouth involved his best friend’s name. 

“ _Chuck,_ ” Nathaniel thought viciously, a million and a half accusations on the tip of his tongue.  Out loud he replied, “With Blair.”  And he watched her.  Watched her face change, watched her unusually fragile façade flicker. 

 

“I just, I didn’t know you’d be here.” She uttered, and Nate’s stomach roiled.  “ _I didn’t know you’d be here,_ ” echoed in his head.  The realization that she came for _Chuck_ , that she needed something, _anything_ , and she came to see _Chuck Bass_ first, to see him _at all_ —

 

He stepped forward to place the glass he held on the counter before he inadvertently shattered it and Jenny shoved clumsily away from him.  He heard more than saw her stumble; caught the interruption in the typically steady, confident, 1, 2 footfalls of her walk.  The heavy-lidded eyes, the disjointed movement, the labored breathing, the fine sheen of drug-induced sweat; Nate had been friends with Chuck long enough to know the signs. 

 

“What are you doing here?” he spat, when what he really wanted to ask was, “ _Are you high?_ ”

 

Her answer was an acid taunt.  She wound her tongue around each syllable in his name, dragging out, “ _Nathaniel_ ” in breathy punishment.  He barely caught her next slurred command, looked away as she let herself into Chuck’s bedroom with the ease of familiarity, bit the inside of his cheek, drew on the pain to ward off the chaos swirling in his mind. 

 

The rattle of the vanity mirror against the bedroom wall almost propelled him across the open space of the living room.  A thousand worst-case scenarios flitted through his head; she fell into the glass, or the mirror fell on her, or she shattered her reflection into a hundred shards and she’s bleeding all over the carpet and “ _why haven’t you moved your feet yet Nate?_ ” 

 

He starts when the bedroom door meets the frame with a resounding ‘ _slam_ ’.  It echoes, reverberates through the heavy silence that drapes the suite.  He strains his ears to hear something, anything to quiet those nagging ‘ _what ifs_ ’ and the voice that mocks when it reminds him he gave up worrying about Little Jenny Humphrey a lifetime ago.  There is a faint rustling, images of _silk on skin_ torture him, then nothing.  Incessant nothing.  He remembers that he doesn’t care, remembers deciding he wouldn’t care, reasons that he doesn’t have to care to want to avoid Dan’s wrath for killing his baby sister; justifies to _himself_ feeling like a crazy person that Dan would, in fact, be pissed if he let her die, then finds his hand on the brass door handle of its own volition. 

 

***

 

Nate nudged the bedroom door open slowly; suddenly unsure he wanted to see inside.  He listened carefully, fully expecting Jenny to scream the door shut, but he could hear nothing.  With his heart grinding ulcers in his stomach, he entered swiftly; his hesitation punched aside in favor of panic.  Jenny was impossibly still.  ‘ _Was she breathing?_ ’  He sat on the edge of Chuck’s bed.  Reluctantly he reached out his right hand to grasp the wrist that lay at her side, wrapped two fingers and a thumb around the milky skin and waited anxiously.  The familiar ‘ _lub-dub_ ’ of her pulse pounded under his fingers.  His breathing slowed.  He could see the rise and fall of her chest now.  He reached out to tuck her bangs back behind her ear before censuring himself for the inane habit.  She whimpered at his touch but nudged her face forward, seemingly seeking him despite her altered state.  Nate swallowed thickly, his stomach heavy, an unfamiliar feeling constricting his chest.  _Regret_ was not something that typically afflicted the great Nathaniel Archibald but in that moment it was so palpable he was sure he could recount the _taste_ of it.   
  
 

***  
  
 

 Jenny had swallowed the Sahara.  She was sure of it.  Her throat felt like it had been marinated in road tar and the unwavering white light was back.  It seared straight through her eyelids, regardless of how tightly she squeezed them shut.  She could hear someone moving, the scraping sound of a chair being pulled out.  The sensation of pressure surrounding her wrist forced her eyes open.  Her vision was fuzzy but there was no one near her. 

 

She was on a bed.  A nice bed. 

 

_Chuck’s bed?_  Lord, help her, what was she doing? 

 

“Wow, twice in one night.  To what do I owe this honor?”  Jenny’s head snapped up at the memorable voice; her eyes met those of the same woman who had starred in her dreams earlier that night. 

 

“To be fair, Jennifer,” the brunette intoned, “the first time you were flat unconscious.  Now you’re fast asleep.”

 

The brush of something across Jenny’s face made her flinch, a strangled noise escaping past her lips.  The sudden inhale brought with it a scent long-since ingrained in her sensory memory and she found herself moving in the direction of its wake.  ‘ _Nate_ ’, the thought popped unbidden into her mind.  Something about that smell was distinctly, unmistakably Nate Archibald.  Jenny almost rolled her eyes.  First crazy, strange brunettes; now she was having delusions about Nate?  Whatever was in the pill Damien gifted to her, was _not_ worth _this_. 

 

The brunette’s correction was caustic, “You’re not _delusional_ , Jenny.  I believe the term you people use is, ‘sleeping it off’.”

 

“Damnit, would you stop that?” Jenny implored, her brain still functioning sluggishly. 

 

The brunette raised an eyebrow, “Stop what?  I’m just answering _you_!” 

 

“I haven’t _said_ anything!” Jenny argued. 

 

The brunette started at her, unimpressed, “Please, _Tallulah,_ I thought we went through this the first time.  I’m _inside your head_.  I know what you’re thinking before _you do_.”

 

Jenny scooted to the end of the bed, frustrated.  “I’m just sleeping?”

 

The brunette paused, contemplating.  “A little heavier than usual I guess, thanks to those pretty pink elephants you swallowed, but yeah, sleeping.”

 

Jenny groaned, rolling her neck and shoulders to relieve the tension that had gathered there.  “Why are you here?”

 

“Well, dearie, next time you’re looking to take a trip go to Central Park,” the brunette quipped walking closer, “What, you mean to tell me you’re not enjoying these trippy dreams?”

 

Jenny slumped over to rest her head against the cool, satin sheets.  “Oh my God, I’m dead.” She mumbled, her voice muffled by the linens. 

 

The brunette rolled her eyes.  “You’re not dead, drama queen.”

 

Jenny pushed off her forearms to look up at the other woman.  “No.  My father and my brother and probably my stepmother are going to _kill_ me when they find out!  And Chuck is going to have Damien murdered and Nate—“she gasped, “—oh, God, Nate.  I am so dead.  He hates my guts!  He’s going to tell my father about this with a smile on his face!”

 

The brunette raised her eyebrows.  “God do you ever stop?” she asked, not waiting for an answer, “Relax, Jennifer.  No one knows you’re here and nobody knows what happened.  Hazel and Penelope certainly aren’t going to cozy up to Dan to tell him.  Chuck…” she trailed off considering, “…Well, he’s Chuck Bass.  Damien is probably fucked.  But _that_ is not the end of the world.” 

 

A ghost of a smile brushed Jenny’s lips but the brunette continued.  “Nate…” she trailed off again, “Nate might be a problem.”  Jenny opened her mouth to speak but the young woman cut her off.  “But not because he hates you.  Quite the opposite.” The brunette smiled whimsically.  “He always was your Knight in shining Armani.”

 

Jenny’s brow furrowed and she sat up straight.  “I thought you were just a facet of my drug-induced delusions.” 

 

The brunette rolled her eyes.  “Not delusions,” she sing-songed, “but what’s your point?”

 

Jenny stood and moved towards the chair against the far wall.  “My _point_ is that _you_ know what _I_ know.  And I _know_ that Nate hates me.  So this is definitely a _delusion._ ” She concluded matter-of-factly. 

 

The brunette stood as well and approached Jenny again.  “Maybe you _are_ delusional.  Because A, you are kidding yourself if you think Nate Archibald hates you, and B,” she dropped her voice to a whisper, “you’re arguing with the voices in your head.”  Jenny groaned and dropped onto the chair.

  
***

 

Somewhere between 12:30 and 3 a.m., ( _sometime between watching Jenny breathe and deciding on the best plan to flee the country should Dan get wind of this and hunt him down)_ Nate fell asleep.  He’d spent the whole 1:00 hour trying to call Chuck, wrath of Blair be damned, but he couldn’t bring himself to push ‘send’. 

 

Despite the stupid things he may have said ( _screamed_ ) months ago, he couldn’t hand _Jenny_ over to Chuck.  Chuck didn’t spend important events on apartment stoops with her; he wasn’t there to put her in a cab or offer a hiding place when she fell apart.  _Chuck_ didn’t _know_ , Chuck didn’t _care_ that she was purely _better_.  He didn’t sacrifice exam grades for movie nights.  ( _Booty calls were a different story_.)  He didn’t make sure her sketchbook was where it belonged or dig up rap sheets on photog. wannabes or drive her to guerrilla fashion shows or rescue her from sex tapes waiting to happen or stand up in front of all of New York and call her his ( _date_ ). 

 

By 2:00 he’d yielded, surrendered to his own personal brand of pathetic, tossed his cell phone at the pillows and debated the best way to remove Jenny’s dangerous looking shoes without waking her up.  Or hurting himself.  By 2:30 he was alternating between watching ‘General Hospital’ reruns and Jenny as she twitched against the coolness of the washcloth he’d held to her alarmingly overheated forehead, and mumbled in her sleep.  He even tried praying once.  The words were unfamiliar but he’d never meant anything more in his life. (… _Dear Father, please look after your daughter, Jennifer Humphrey…)_   By 3:00 he’d succumbed to a fitful sleep plagued with nightmares of funerals and hospitals and Jason Morgan. 

**Author's Note:**

> GG can't come back soon enough! All this NJ-spoiler-induced energy and nothing to do with it! Comments/reviews are welcome!


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